A Mist of Freedom
by LaSuen
Summary: It takes place by the end of the 7th book. The platform, the mist and the train. Harry Potter and Severus Snape. One-shot.


**Title**: A Mist of Freedom (Туманы Свободы)

**Author**: Levian N.

**Translator**: LaSuen

**Beta**: halfwayhopeful

**D****isclaimer**: I do not own anything

**Summary**: It takes place by the end of the 7th book. The platform, the mist and the train. And yes, they are dead.

**A/N**: Thanks to Levian N. for her wonderful story! Thanks to my beta halfwayhopeful!

Hope you'll enjoy it! Reviews are much appreciated!

**A Mist of Freedom**

A dense snowy haze shrouded the platform and a train whistle sounded, sharp and demanding. With hurried heels, a figure, that of a woman in a garish red cloak, flashed at a distance. Then silence fell. The platform was yet again deserted.

The only bench – wooden, narrow, and hard – was occupied by Severus Snape. The man was in a worry, his fingers tapping on his frugal, black leather suitcase, which was lying on his lap. The saffron eye of the lone streetlight was blinking, somehow disapproving, and as if in confusion; the copper-coloured post, crooked and darkened with time, stood out in wreaths of thickened moisture, giving off the distinct impression Snape produced while dressed in all black. Disquiet, which seemed to capture the professor after the whistle sounded, slackened, and his face was glum and inscrutable yet again. However, Snape knew for sure that it wasn't his train. He had been so exhausted by the anticipation of the journey; he hadn't expected this from himself. Looking back in time, he could say for sure that anticipation was often longer, and brought much more anguish, than the journey itself.

He gripped his suitcase and leaned forward, hoping to hear the whistle which would acknowledge his oncoming train. But then in the mist, thick as clotted cream, a rather disheveled boy appeared. With an abrupt intake of breath, Snape squeezed his suitcase with such strength that his knuckles whitened, and a screeching sound wrenched the air when the human skin rubbed the leather, curried and tanned.

"Potter," said Snape in disbelief. "What are you doing here?"

Harry James Potter was the same as he remembered: skinny and awkward, his hair untidy, the funny round lenses of his glasses hung askew. He was the last person Snape wanted to see. Substantially, Snape didn't want to see him at all.

Potter lifted his hands in dismay and apology, the wide sleeves of his long cloak, a soft indigo fabric that glistened, riding up to his elbows, the dim brass buckles on the collar flashing with a vague yellow light. Snape unconsciously fixed his own starched collar, which cut painfully in his neck.

"I…" the boy said in a timid voice, and Snape sniffed, scornfully. "Well, since I was here anyway I decided to see you off," Harry blurted.

"I thank you, Mr Potter," Snape replied, looking up with a nasty smirk. "But I am in perfect condition to take the train on my own. Let me assure you that if you are here to see with your own eyes that I am gone… "

"I didn't mean that, actually," remarked Potter, and unceremoniously plopped onto the bench next to the professor. Snape moved away as far as he could without falling off.

"In that case, I would advise you not to neglect the process of weighing your thoughts before putting them into words," Snape said nonchalantly, peering into the mist. He was certain the train would pull up in no time.

Potter was sitting with his head drooped, scrutinizing his meagre and thin knees, which were so sharp that even the light fabric couldn't hide their potruding edges. Apparently, he had nothing under his cloak and he must've been feeling rather cold and uncomfortable on a damp and chilly evening like this.

The bench stood in the middle of a puddle, glimmering with amber light. Grotesque shadows of Snape and Potter fell on its surface and divided it into three uneven parts. The old streetlight was creaking soothingly, swinging in a steady rhythm that cast multiangular glows on Potter's head.

Yet again the staccato sound of someone's heels reached their ears; somebody else distinctly chuckled in the distance. There they were, pondered Snape, and all was not over yet.

Potter leaned forward, as if to speak, but a long-awaited whistle sounded, and after getting a better grip on his suitcase Snape stood up harshly. One of the shadows fluttered and crumbled into nothingness, a kaleidoscope of black and grey colours going to pieces in the saffron-yellow mist.

"Professor!" Potter shouted after him, jerking himself from the bench and nearly toppling it over. "May I walk to the train with you, please?"

"I sanction you to walk wherever you want to, Potter," said Snape in a tired voice. Leaden from the long hours of sitting, his heavy legs were like pillars of marble. Through locks of his hair that had fallen over his face, he saw the argent haze, trembling and glinting like Potter's cloak. Coils of the mist snaked on the floor of the platform, eager to soar high up into the air. He continued, "But I urgently recommend you to choose another direction. You may positively think that you've seen me off."

He decisively stepped into the alabaster void. The crooked streetlight and the narrow bench disappeared.

In a second a familiar silhouette popped into view.

"Mr Potter," Snape hastened his pace. "Haven't you learnt from six years at school what the words "another direction" mean?"

"I have; I knew even before Hogwarts," the impertinent boy began to walk faster as well. "But I said I'd walk you to the train."

"Potter," Snape lingered. "You are waited for in another place. Go away."

"Yes," Harry said. Then he took off his glasses, rubbed them with his sleeve, and twisted them in his hands, not in a hurry to replace them. His face was unusually open without his glasses, his pupils, wide in the half-darkness, almost hid the green colour of the retina. "There is still time. I haven't been here for long." He lifted his hand to smooth his hair, but thought better of it.

"Can I inquire," asked Snape coldly. "How on earth you got here?"

Potter shrugged. "I've been in the waiting lounge, and it was easy to get to the platform from there. I just chose the right door. It's easy if you know how to do it. Or if you guess," he added, with a winning smile.

For the second time, an insistent whistle ripped into the short silence.

"Go now, get back to the waiting lounge," said Snape. He turned around, the flaps of his cloak ruffled, and made for the corridor which helpfully appeared between wreaths of the mist. "You needed the other door. Why would you have chosen this one in the first place? Or are you as always ready and willing to stick your finger in every pie?

He frowned when Potter for the second time caught up with him, walking shoulder to shoulder. The boy, however, looked perplexed.

"As I already said," Insisted Potter quietly, but stalwartly, "I wanted to see you off."

"Why?" Snape sounded indifferent. He thought casually that from the outside they must seem very funny: a thin and stooping sulky man in black and a lanky tousled teenager.

"To apologize," With that, Snape wrinkled his nose, but Harry went on. "And to thank you."

"Such a platitude wasn't worth it. Off you go then."

"Thanks, but I'm not in a hurry."

"Are you, now?" The professor didn't lessen his pace. "Are you sure?"

"Absolutely. I've settled everything. In the waiting lounge."

"Potter," Snape said dangerously. "You think that you can cross any line you want, but let me dissuade you," he said, almost hissing, his words strangely resounded in the mist, "No matter how you wouldn't want to convince me the other way, you haven't settled everything yet. So get out of here now and let me take my train."

Potter neither said anything nor turned back.

In the dusky silver void, resembling winter twilight, outlines of the train were looming and with every pace they became less and less vague.

"It's yours," remarked Potter absent-mindedly. He put his hands in the pockets of his unpractical cloak and stooped.

"I see."

Presently the mist was swirling under their feet like a fluffy carpet, not bigger than ten feet in diametre. The borders were the misty walls, thick and bluish-white like zinc.

Through one of the carriage windows there shone a dim azure light, black metal steps almost demanded one set foot on them. The old-fashioned cherry-coloured train with crimson window frames was likely to be eternally long.

Snape firmly headed for the carriage. The flaps of his long, billowing cloak got lost in the wreaths of the mist which more and more resembled steam, gushing out of the train pipe.

Holding the handrail, Snape made an involuntary turn to silent Potter. The boy stood on the spot, looking as if Christmas was cancelled this year, the lenses of his glasses sky-blue and non-transparent.

Snape nodded sharply and waved his hand, indicating the direction in which, according to him, was the station. Potter nodded back.

The professor didn't want neither to talk nor to bid goodbye. He cast the last glance at Potter whose feet were shrouded in wreaths of the mist – or steam? – raising from the ground. Snape got onto the train.

The train took off and began to accelerate steadily. Its wheels were tapping rthythmically, the floor quaking a bit under his feet. After second's thinking Snape decided to choose that particular compartment which he had already noticed from the platform.

He swung the door open and froze to the spot. You couldn't have made a better impression even by magic.

"Potter," he hissed, managing to do it even with the complete absence of sibilants in boy's name. "What the hell are you doing here?"

"Sitting," the boy answered tersely. Apparently, he didn't feel any discomfort; on the contrary, he leaned back with pleasure against the soft dark-violet upholstery of the sofa and squinted at the light of the lamp.

"I see that you are sitting here," Said Snape, and with the presence of sibilants it was much more intimidating. "Why aren't you at the station?"

" I've already been there," With an inviting gesture, Potter indicated the opposite seat. Being fully flabbergasted and insenced by such insolence, Snape entered the compartment, automatically closing the door.

"Then go back at once," Snape hung above him, feeling an irresistible desire to throw Potter out of the window. The boy seemed to guess this inclination and hurried to move a bit closer to the door. The stately figure of the severe professor was marred only by the suitcase, which nearly slipped out of Snape's hands.

"I can't," Potter shrugged his shoulders and leaned forward, all his limbs tense. The wide sleeves rode up to his elbows again. "I lied to you; I'm not from the waiting lounge. Better put, I've been there as well, but I chose one of the doors and got right to the ticket offices. And, well, I found a few coins mislaid in my pockets, and it appeared that I could buy one of the remaining tickets. Any ticket. I asked where all these trains were heading and I was told that nearly all of them went to the same place. I chose the same train as you did, and I got into the carriage as well. It wasn't hard. I gave it a try and managed."

"Potter," Snape leaned against the door wearily. "You mean we will go together? And that you do not have a chance to return?"

The wheels were making a pacifying noise, the light of the lamp shone with an even, cerulean flame, and the opalescent haze through the window was still as impervious as ever.

"I think I don't. " Potter was looking through the window, his fringe casting ragged zigzags of shadow across his face. "I wonder when it comes?"

"If you weren't so impatient, you could have bought a ticket on the other train."

"Maybe I am impatient," said Potter wistfully. "No… I wanted to get on this train alright." All of a sudden, he lifted his legs on the sofa and embraced his knees. He closed his eyes and threw back his head. "I'm just wondering where it will take us… and how it will be there."

Potter sat in a cozy shade, his dark-blue cloak blending with the upholstery of the same colour – only his hair plainly visible, his face and palms like white spots. The slim and pointed figure of Snape, on the contrary, divided the nut-coloured door with its black outlines.

"I don't think it would be dreadful," answered Snape, and Potter looked up with a hint of distrust and interest at the same time. "At least, nothing worse than this."

"You know, you were right," Potter said. "I wasn't afraid. I only got scared towards the end – in the last one or two hours. And I'm still afraid. I was afraid to even apologize."

Snape only snorted in response.

"Shouldn't have been," he muttered unheedingly, examining his suitcase.

"How are all of them?" asked Potter. "I reckon, this was one of the last trains. Is it all over?"

"Not every one takes a train. But you should not worry about that now," said Snape coldly.

Potter signed and pressed his cheek against the upholstery of the seat, huddling himself up in a rather awkward position. Presently Snape looked at him and was surprised at seeing the boy steeped in slumber. Shaking his head, Snape grabbed his suitcase by the faded handle, his other hand opening the window, and hurled it away into the distant mist. A cold and salty wind threw Snape's locks of hair into his face. Wrinkling with displeasure, he tucked them behind his ears and closed the window quietly.

Soft and soothing darkness crept on its tiptoes from all corners, and Potter was snoring humourously in the silence. Sitting at the foot of the seat, Snape absently watched as blue light danced and squirmed along the round glasses.

In the end, he reasoned soundly, this train had to get to somewhere.

One after the other, carriages were sliding out of the wreaths of mist, and in the twinkling of a moment, there they were, captured by the impenetrable ivory haze. The fragrance of spring and bloosoming apple trees filled the air.


End file.
